


Bracelets

by Lanyonn



Series: Bracelets Universe [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Angst, Cheating, Drug Abuse, Family, Homophobia, M/M, Occasional fluff, Smut, Teenhood, Voyeurism, physical violence, psychological violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:44:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanyonn/pseuds/Lanyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a sixteen year old searching for his soul. Eames is a thirty seven year old family man with a wife and kids. When Arthur comes to know Eames’ most preciously guarded secret, he finds that it is he, Arthur, who is put in a precarious position and not Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voyeur

**_One_ **

**_Voyeur_ **

 

Arthur’s bedroom window looks out over the roof of the patio. As soon as he was tall enough, Arthur learned to climb out of his bedroom window and sit out on the roof. Now that he is sixteen, he has perfected his skills enough that he can do it late at night without waking up the household with the rattling.

 

The patio roof tiles are cold but Arthur isn’t one to nitpick about such things. There are trees along the perimeter of his suburban home but there is a gap on the left through which he has an unrestricted view of the first floor of the house next door. Not that Arthur is interested in any of his neighbours – he thinks that they couldn’t be more boring if they tried.

 

Arthur’s next door neighbours to the left are the Carters – a family of four, the father, Eames Carter, the mother, Jenny Carter and their twin sons, Lionel and Christian. Families are boring. Arthur would know. He has a big family of his own – his father, mother, grandmother, an uncle, an aunt and a particularly annoying young cousin all live in the house together. Most days he has to lock his room in order to make sure no one barges in on him uninvited.

 

The houses in this part of the suburb are all old and big and only once Arthur has wondered what it would be like to live in a house this big on his own or with just his parents while looking at the Carters’ home. Otherwise, the Carters are of no interest to him. And it would have remained so if Arthur hadn’t been sitting on the patio roof, smoking a joint and gazing mindlessly in the direction of the Carters’ home.

 

For some moments he thought he was imagining something. Arthur had gotten so used to smoking weed that he didn’t really hallucinate on it like he used to before. Moreover, living in a house full of people, he has learnt not to smoke till he is completely baked. He just has enough to give him a kick and his current stock of weed is kind of horrible anyway. So he really shouldn’t be imagining anything but he is.

 

He is imagining Eames Carter fucking another man in the bed where Arthur has only seen him fuck Jenny Carter once before. They are usually careful enough to draw the blinds. Moreover, from his vantage point, Arthur is at such an angle that he can observe more clearly but they would need to lean out and strain around the window to actually see him atop the patio roof.

 

Arthur drops his cigarette and rubs his eyes hastily. He scrambles back inside his room and grabs his glasses and the binoculars. He doesn’t really need the glasses – they are a very minimal number, minus zero point two five. He can see well enough without them. But he jams them over his nose and puts his binoculars over his eyes.

 

There is no mistaking the burly tattooed body atop the lithe blonde male on his stomach on the bed. It is definitely Eames Carter and fuck, Arthur thinks, he has one hell of an ass and some crazy powerful thighs. He is holding down the blonde who has his ass pushed up towards Eames Carter, his face turned to a side. Arthur can’t see the expression on his face, he can only make it out that he is a male because just before Eames flipped him over onto his stomach, he had been fucking the blonde man against the table, standing up. Arthur saw his titless chest and hard cock alright.

 

Arthur slowly grows hard in his pants as he watches Eames fuck whoever the hell the man is.

 

He knows that he shouldn’t, he definitely shouldn’t be watching this. But he cannot look away. His hand creeps down between his legs and he palms at the bulge forming there. However, he is jerked out of his pot-fuelled sexual daze when he hears the sound of a car coming up the driveway and quickly stumbles back into his room. He finishes himself off, eyes shut tightly, imagining what it is like to have a man like Eames Carter fucking him in the ass.

 


	2. Samaritan

**_Two_ **

**_Samaritan_ **

 

“Faggot,” spits out the lanky redhead from his History class as he aims a hard kick at Arthur’s stomach. It is the last one before the group that had waylaid him in the alley scatters away, running off in different directions as a couple of men come over to check the commotion.

 

“Alright, kid?” asks one of them, stepping around Arthur gingerly.

 

“Fuck off,” says Arthur through his bloodied mouth and drags himself to his feet. He grabs his bag and ambles away, adrenaline surging through his body. The men probably meant well. But he doesn’t want to stick around to find out just in case they didn’t. He is a teenage boy in the seedy gay district. He hadn’t expected Brandon’s group to follow him all the way out here just to beat the shit out of him. He shouldn’t expect any helpful strangers to be all good Samaritans.

 

He walks some distance before kneeling over and throwing up. Thankfully, the men don’t seem to be keen on following him and he is alone as he empties out the contents of his stomach. He draws curious glances but nothing more. His head and face are throbbing but he forces himself to get up and start walking again. He is done for the day. He needs to get home before the police comes searching for him.

 

He has barely walked down the street when he realises that a car has slowed down and is moving alongside him.

 

“Fuck off,” he says in the general direction of the car, spitting out the blood that starts to fill up his mouth again. “Or I’ll break your nuts.”

 

“Aren’t you the Zmijewski boy?”

 

Arthur stops as he hears his name. To his horror, Eames Carter is looking up at him from his car, brown hair neatly combed back, blue tie, black coat and all. Arthur thinks about what a horrible day he has had and how it is all because he saw Eames Carter fuck a guy in his bed yesterday night. Arthur couldn’t get it out of his mind. It made him moodier than ever and he showed up Brandon Leigh in front of the whole Chemistry class. Brandon Leigh, the stupid homophobe who was always on Arthur’s case since Arthur was openly gay. He knew that Arthur was too much of a trouble kid to have any friends to come to his defence.

 

Of course, Arthur shouldn’t have been spying on Eames in the first place and he definitely shouldn’t have kept watching when he realised what he had seen. But that is immaterial. He is smarting from physical hurt and humiliation and he wants to blame _someone_ for how fucking wrong his life is.

 

Eames Carter is in his silver fucking Lexus, asking Arthur if he is the Zmijewski boy. Eames Fucking Carter doesn’t even know his name.

 

“Yeah,” says Arthur, wiping at his nose and mouth. “So what?” he demands defensively. What does Eames think he will do? Tell his family that their worthless boy was roaming around the gay district? Well, too bad they already know that he digs men. Not that that is the same as hanging around the place where sleazy men pick up rent boys but what the fuck is Eames Carter doing around here anyway?

 

Eames pushes open the passenger’s side door for him.

 

“You look bad, kid, come on. I’ll drop you home.”

 

Arthur hesitates and glances around. A few boys are openly gawking at him from the other side of the road. There are other men hanging around the area, scouting. He could walk home but his stomach hurts and his back hurts and every body part has some sort of ache going on. He is hurting down to the core where there is no physical explanation.

 

He throws his bag inside the SUV and gets in.

 

“Thanks,” he says grudgingly as he puts on the seatbelt. “And my name is Arthur.”

 

Eames looks him over once before starting to drive. He hands him the ashtray and tells him to spit out any more blood in it, to not swallow anything.

 

For a moment, Arthur thinks he is going to start crying and his humiliation will be complete. However, he spits out the blood that drips the back of his throat and wipes his nose and eyes. Eames has looked away, eyes back on the road as he drives.

 

“You need to get checked out in the ER, _Arthur_ ,” he says quietly once they have driven towards more reputable parts of the city.

 

They have been riding in complete silence and Arthur, who had started to doze off in his comfortable seat despite all the aches and pains in his body jerks awake. “Hell no,” he says. “Please, just drop me in the neighbourhood intersection, Mr Carter,” he says irately, sitting up straighter. “There is nothing ER-level wrong with me.” The world where he had jerked himself off thrice just thinking about Eames Carter fucking him seems like something from a dream. Right now, he is so constrained with shame, he feels like he cannot get out of here fast enough. The pain he feels physically is nothing compared to the mortification of explaining how it all came to be.

 

He catches Eames glancing at him and frowns harder, hoping to drive in the point.

 

“If it is not,” says Eames, as he turns the car in the direction of the hospital, “then they will tell you so and ask you to go home.”

 

“I’m really grateful for the ride, Mr Carter,” begins Arthur but Eames cuts him off.

 

“Call me Eames, Arthur,” he says patiently but firmly. “If you are afraid about informing your parents back home about what happened, you don’t have to worry about that. I’m taking you to get checked on my own. Once they tell you everything is alright, I will drop you back home and we can just pretend this whole thing never happened.”

 

 _And we can just pretend this whole thing never happened_ , repeats Arthur in his head. _Is that how you deal with your double life and shit_?

 

However, Eames doesn’t ask him what happened or who did this to him. He doesn’t ask what Arthur was doing back there. There are no questions forthcoming.

 

Arthur realises that Eames is doing him a favour and he grows silent, stealing glances at Eames’ set visage and wondering if Eames had been at the gay district scouting for men. Maybe that was where he had picked up the blonde he had been fucking last night. The blood has stopped dripping into the back of his throat and down his nose but his face is throbbing even more painfully. However, Arthur is still thinking about the view he got from the patio roof last night. There’s something really wrong with his head – more than the moodiness, the social maladjustment, the gay thing, the pot smoking. Something bigger, something deeper and Arthur just can’t stop.

 

The ER visit doesn’t take as long as Arthur was afraid it would. He hasn’t broken his nose, all his scans are clear and there aren’t any internal injuries. Arthur could have told them as much. He knows what it is like to have a real injury. He has learnt how to protect himself so that nothing actually important gets hurt. This is just Eames wasting his money.

 

Still, he needs three stitches to his lower lip. He spins out a story about being mugged and scowls at the ER nurse as he glances suspiciously at Eames.

 

“He helped me out,” he tells him sharply, sounding slurred and drunken because of the anaesthesia they gave to his mouth. Eames looks exhausted but his grateful smile makes Arthur’s stomach do a little flip flop which has nothing to do with his body’s battered condition.

 

Eames foots all bills, getting all his medication afterwards. It is after midnight when they reach their neighbourhood again. Eames had had the presence of mind to remind Arthur to call home and tell them he would be late getting back. He did not comment on the fact that Arthur is probably the only teenager who doesn’t carry around a phone as he lends him his own.

 

Arthur’s family isn’t exceptionally worried. Staying out late is a normal occurrence even though Arthur has no friends he has ever brought back home. His aunt doesn’t question him much about it, just asks him if he has the keys to let himself inside in case they are all asleep by the time he gets back.

 

“The missus is not home?” Arthur asks as they drive by Carters’ house and the car finally comes to a stop in front of his own gate.

 

Eames glances at him, the light in the car coming on. “She has taken the kids down to their grandparents in Florida.”

 

Arthur grabs the packet of his stuff from the hospital and opens the car door. “Thanks for everything, Eames,” he says, looking Eames in the eyes. “Since I’m alright, we can just pretend that this whole thing never happened, right?” he asks, quirking up a corner of his lips in a smile despite the throbbing it causes in the whole of his mouth and jaw.

 

The hard lines around Eames’ face relax as he smiles.

 

“Yeah,” he says, crooked teeth showing, “just make sure you rest those old bones over the weekend.”

 

“Fuck you,” Arthur is laughing, laughing for the first time in forever, even if it is a strange sound that hurts his whole face. “Talk about yourself, old man.”

 

He gets out of the car and Eames bids him a good night. Arthur watches the car disappear inside the gate next door before going in himself. He is lucky Brandon and Co decided to beat him up on a Friday evening. He is lucky Brandon and Co decided to beat him up when Eames Carter was around to pick him up afterwards.

 

Arthur lets himself in quietly and takes the pills for the night before undressing and slipping inside his bed. He lies sleepless for a while before carefully climbing onto the patio roof. One of his hands is badly bruised but the pain pills have kicked in and it is okay. He looks out towards Eames’ bedroom but the blinds are drawn and the lights are turned off. He waits for a while in the cold night before going back inside, his feelings a bittersweet mixture of disappointment and hope.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the readers! Every single one of you means a lot to me :)


	3. Schoolboy Crush

 

**_Three_ **

**_Schoolboy Crush_ **

 

 

The first thing Arthur does on waking up the next day, is to drag himself to the window and try to get a view of Eames’ house. However, the old hawthorn effectively blocks his view. His uncle is out tending to the garden while his grandmother sits in the patio with her cat so Arthur doesn’t dare to climb out onto the patio roof. The pain has begun resurging through his body and Arthur swallows down his morning pills before cleaning himself up the best he can in the bath.

 

He hasn’t gotten beaten up this badly in quite a while and his usual course of action would have been to stay in bed till he was feeling human again, especially since he has the excuse of the weekend to keep himself locked up inside his room. However, he has other plans for the day. So he pulls on a baggy black sweater over his Adam Lambert t-shirt and keeps a muffler at hand as he heads downstairs.

 

The pills keep the pain to a dull minimum but Arthur still sports a shiner, a bruised jaw and a swollen lower lip the next day. Arthur’s mother is in tears again, wondering why Arthur cannot be like all the other boys. His aunt clucks her tongue in sympathy. His father is always repulsed by any mention of his son’s homosexuality and consequences thereof. So he sits in the living room watching the re-run of a baseball game as his mother goes on and on about how she wished Arthur was like all the other boys. His young cousin, Diane, is seven and keeps staring at him instead of finishing her breakfast.

 

Arthur is used to it. It is the same drama whether he gets beaten up or gets a failing grade in literature or a call from his school because he got into a fight in the gym class. They always peg all his problems down to being gay, which, to be honest, they usually are. But there are a few more gay boys at school and Arthur is sure they lead much less eventful lives than his own.

 

He sits with a bag of frozen peas pressed against his jaw as he tries to swallow down some soggy cereals. It is always better to have some food down his the stomach when he is on pain medication. His painkiller of choice is weed but he is running low on his stock and he doesn’t want to get baked when he puts his plans into action today.

 

Arthur puts his bowl and spoon in the sink and the bag of peas back in the freezer before hurrying out of the house, leaving his mother ranting tearfully behind him. The winter is fast melting into spring and Arthur wraps the soft woollen muffler around his neck and lower face, hiding the better part of his injuries. He walks up and down the street, passing the Carters’ house twice before losing his nerve. He heads down to the supermarket because there is no other particular destination close by.

 

He curses himself for his cowardice as he wanders the mart aimlessly and steels himself again on his way back.

 

This time he gets lucky.

 

Eames is working in his garden, planting saplings. Arthur notices him from a distance and slows down as he passes by Carters’ house. Eames looks up from where he is kneeling not far from the fence, shovelling out the dirt. He pauses and gives Arthur a cheerful smile, his eyes shaded by his hat but uneven teeth shining between plush lips. His five o clock shadow from last night is now a soft beard and the scene etches itself deeply into Arthur’s memories. Eames is pretty, he thinks, which is weird because Eames has got to be closer to his father’s age than his own. But the sight of Eames’ smile this morning makes everything so much better that Arthur’s throat constricts a little.

 

“Hullo,” he calls out to Arthur, his English accent more evident now than it was yesterday. “ _Arthur_ ,” he says, emphasizing his name and Arthur goes pinker under the bruises on his face. “How are the old bones doing today?”

 

He sets aside his shovel and gets up as he speaks. He walks closer to the fence where Arthur is standing on the sidewalk on the other side.

 

“Better than yours, I’m sure,” Arthur retorts beaming. It is April and there is still a chill in the air. But Eames is wearing a flimsy excuse of a shirt stretched taut across his body with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow. It isn’t the first time that Arthur is seeing him in such tight clothing. Eames has an enviably ripped body and he is unashamed about flaunting it. However, Eames is no longer a denizen of the world of straight men who would knock out all of Arthur’s teeth just for looking at them. Eames _belongs_ to his world. And he is the best thing Arthur has seen in his world in his entire life.

 

Eames doesn’t press on with their little joke but instead his keen blue eyes examine his face intently. “The one on the jaw looks bad. It is a miracle you didn’t break any teeth.”

 

Arthur pulls the muffler higher up over his face. He hates the wounds he wears as brandings of defeat. “Just knocked it against the ground,” he says with a defiant look in his eyes as he stares back into Eames’ eyes. Arthur is wispy and stick-thin at five foot five, almost a head shorter than Eames. He is smaller than most boys in his class and on more hopeless days, he thinks he is going to be stuck in his small slim frame, never putting on an ounce of muscle or an inch in height. What he lacks in build, he makes up in words and looks, which gets him into never-ending trouble.

 

However, Eames seems to like that fiery, challenging look because his smile only grows wider.

 

“And then the ground knocked it right back a few times, eh?” he teases and opens the gate, wordlessly inviting Arthur inside. Just then, Diane, who is playing outside, calls out to Arthur. Arthur tells her he will be home later and quickly goes in before Eames can change his mind about the invitation he has extended.

 

“Your little sister is a darling,” says Eames as Diane finally goes back to her games. Arthur feels frustrated. He does _not_ want Eames to see him as a child.

 

“She is my cousin, not my sister,” he says peevishly, looking around at the saplings Eames has been planting. “She’s just a kid.”

 

“You need to keep putting ice to that,” says Eames, tactfully changing subjects as he realises that Arthur would rather not talk about his family.

 

 “Yeah, that’s the plan,” Arthur says casually, his jaw starting to hurt again from the walking and talking he has been doing since the morning. He holds up his supermarket purchases. Honestly, he hadn’t understood the need for cold packs when a bag of frozen food worked just as well. He is running low on cash, too, and he needs to restock his weed. However, as he had been wandering around the mart, his eyes had landed on the pack and he had felt like indulging himself. _Fuck it_ , he’d thought, _why not?_

In fact, that hadn’t been his only purchase with the last of the money in his pocket.

 

“I – uh, I got you something,” says Arthur, holding out a package towards Eames. Arthur had come up with the plan while roaming around the mart. He had meant to knock on Eames’ door using the thank-you gift as the pretext and get another chance to talk to him. “Thanks for the – uh, last night.” The warmth in Arthur’s face has nothing to do with the muffler wrapped snugly around it.

 

Eames is visibly surprised but thanks him and graciously accepts the appreciation basket of treats. It had seemed like a good idea at the time he bought it but now, Arthur feels small and juvenile as he hands it to Eames even though he spent fifty bucks on it.

 

“No longer pretending that the last night didn’t happen?” Eames asks jokingly and it placates Arthur somehow, breaks the tension.

 

“Uh yeah,” Arthur rubs his nose, pulling the muffler higher up over it.

 

Arthur isn’t sure if he gives off the family-is-ashamed-of-me vibe or if his mother’s laments had been so loud that they had carried all the way over to Carters’ house. Or maybe he just makes a pathetic picture with his baggy black sweater and bruised face, giving treat baskets to men who help his sorry ass after it has been beaten up. In any case, just as he thinks he is overextending his welcome by hanging around the Carters’ garden, the older man surprises him with, “Well, if you got nothing better to do then you can stick around for the day.”

 

The unexpected stroke of luck has Arthur gawking for a few seconds before he hastily replies that no, he has nothing better to do today and yes, he would like to stick around, help out in the garden.

 

Eames scoffs and tells him to go inside.

 

“Don’t want you breaking your old bones over the gardening, darling,” he drawls out as he goes back to working on the plant. “Let them have some rest. I will join you in a minute.”

 

Arthur makes a quip saying Eames should take his time or he will upset his back. Eames’ amused laugh follows him inside the house and Arthur expects that weekend will turn out to be better than anything he has anticipated despite the bad start.


	4. Neighbour

 

**_Four_ **

**_Neighbour_ **

 

The layout of Carters’ house is much like his own but it couldn’t be more different than his home. Arthur feels like he is taking a virtual tour of an interior decoration website. The walls have suave colours and subtle designs he cannot name. He is sure that white, green and blue do the colours no justice. The furniture is in complementary and contrasting colours and shapes and Arthur feels that he cannot appreciate that adequately either. There are latches and safety locks over everything. For a home with kids, it is too well-maintained. Hell, Arthur’s home looks like a pre-school dormitory in comparison to the Carters’. Arthur is intimidated by it.

 

He stands around in the living room, the feeling of discomfort growing before quickly making his way to the kitchen. It is cosier by comparison even though the touch of plants in small pots and jars with herbs and spices in transparent cabinets makes Arthur feel awkward. He puts his ice pack in the fridge and gets some water to swallow down his afternoon dose of pills. His left hip is badly bruised and throbbing in pain but he sits down at the kitchen table, looking out of the window. The crab-apple trees lining the back of his yard are visible from here. He sips on the water slowly for a lack of anything better to do. He can hear faint sounds coming from his home but nothing distinguishable. Maybe his mom and aunt have some friends over and are chatting in the kitchen. They have a big kitchen, having it clubbed together with what used to be a ‘dining room’ in the house before. The women in his family usually entertain their friends there.

 

Arthur is relieved when he finally hears the front door open and close.

 

Eames enters the kitchen after a while, his face a little damp and wearing a brown military jacket over his shirt. He places Arthur’s gift basket on the kitchen table and goes to the fridge.

 

“Hungry?” he asks as he gets a pack of milk and a beer from the fridge. “Chocolate milkshake?” he asks, glancing at Arthur.

 

Arthur shifts uncomfortably in his chair and glances at the beer. “One of those would be fine actually,” he says after a few seconds pause, hating himself a little for being swayed by the mention of chocolate milkshake. He wants Eames to treat him like an adult, like a friend. They probably won’t ever be equals but he doesn’t want to be treated like a kid.

 

“Yeah, right,” Eames snorts and closes the fridge. To Arthur’s annoyance, he sets about making the milkshake for him.

 

But once Arthur has put the black straw in his mouth and taken the first sip, he is willing to forgive Eames.

 

“Let’s go watch some TV,” says Eames, his eyes flickering down to Arthur’s left hip. Of course, he would know where Arthur is hurt bad – he had been standing there when the ER nurse had examined him, noting down each of his injuries before calling the doctor.

 

Arthur follows him into the living room. Eames draws the heavy curtains. With the daylight muted, the room plunged in semidarkness and Eames with him, the room doesn’t seem as uninviting as before.

 

Arthur perches on a cream and green sofa, the green matches that of the fern placed in a pristine white pot beside it, Arthur notes. It is actually pleasant and comfortable once he stops being startled by the presence of so many plants _inside_ the frigging house. He settles on his right, stretching out on the sofa on one side. Eames takes a chair near him, bottle of beer in hand as he turns on the TV.

 

Arthur sips on his milkshake and watches the dance reality show for a while before feeling a tingling behind his ear and looks up to find Eames staring intensely at him.

 

“Want the ice pack?” he asks when Arthur’s eyes meet his.

 

“Y-yeah,” Arthur stutters, unconsciously shrinking back into the couch.

 

Eames gets up and returns with another beer and Arthur’s ice pack. He stands over Arthur and puts the cold compress to his jaw. Arthur forgets to thank him, forgets the glass of milkshake in his hand as he looks up at Eames. It is difficult to make out his expression with his face thrown his shadows but Arthur’s heart hammers away in his chest as he feels a broad thumb brushing beneath the stitch across his lips.

 

“Know the people that did that?” asks Eames, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

 

Arthur pulls his face away from Eames’ hand and grabs the ice pack as Eames steps back. “Just some assholes from school,” he answers, sitting up, wanting the sting of his bruised hip, wanting some physical pain to drown out the surge of humiliation that the topic brings. Of course, with all that Eames has done for him, he has a right to ask something about what happened to Arthur. But Arthur doesn’t want to go there, not with Eames. It won’t be like his mother asking. It would be utterly and completely disgraceful.

 

Eames doesn’t go back to his chair. Arthur presses back into the couch as Eames sits down next to him, barely a hand’s breadth of distance between them.

 

“When other people are assholes to you,” says Eames, his fingers clasped around his beer bottle but he isn’t drinking from it yet, “it is not your fault.”

 

“Look,” says Arthur desperately, his hand shaking a little, the tremors carrying over to the glass, “look, can we just not – _not_ talk about it, please?” He looks down hard at the trickles of condensation on the glass of milkshake, his cheeks burning with humiliation. “I know the shit, okay? But it is my fault. I’m _not_ the sort that gets beaten up without reason – I’m _not_ the pathetic type.”

 

Arthur gets the words out but still wishes he could disappear into thin air at the moment. He hates this. He hates this part. He actually _likes_ his mother for blaming him because then he won’t have to suffer through this part – the pity, the sympathy, the vexing condescension. He is _not_ poor Arthur who cannot do any better. He’s _not_. 

 

Eames does not respond and the sounds of an Usher dance track and the horribly artificial cheering crowd sound effects fill the room. Arthur might have said whatever he wanted to say but it has left him feeling like he has disappointed Eames. He puts down the compress pack, his face and fingers numb from the cold.

 

Really, can’t he just wake up and find out everything is just one of those horrible embarrassing dreams?

 

Next to him, Eames takes a swig from his beer bottle. Arthur imagines hastily thanking Eames for everything and hobbling out of the Carters’ house and never returning here ever again. He won’t be able to face Eames again if he walked out right now. He knows it even more surely than he knows that he isn’t a poor bullied boy.

 

So wrenching out some deep-seated courage, he lifts his eyes to Eames’ face. Eames is looking at the TV, his sharp profile lit up by the light from it.

 

“I’m sorry,” he manages meekly, forcing himself to keep looking at the older man.

 

Eames glances at him, and Arthur has an unbearable urge to press closer to him, wanting to be held. Eames doesn’t look like he is mad at him. His expression is soft. Arthur holds onto his milkshake harder.

 

“It’s alright, Arthur. Honestly, I’m bad at this,” Eames waves his bottle a little, trying to indicate what he means. Arthur sort of understands. “But I just hoped that somehow I could help so that this kind of thing won’t happen to you again. I didn’t mean to give you a talk or anything. It came off the wrong way.”

 

Arthur is glad that Eames is doing the talking now. He cannot speak again just yet.

 

Fortunately, Eames doesn’t seem to be looking for a response afterwards.

 

He leans over Arthur and picks up the compress Arthur had let drop. He puts it to Arthur’s face again, his cologne-scented warmth agonizingly near Arthur. “Keep it on,” he says, the words brushing Arthur’s good cheek. Arthur cannot take his eyes off Eames – his bristly jaw and chin, luscious thick lips, strong aquiline nose, light shining eyes. Arthur cannot tear his gaze off Eames’ eyes.

 

And Eames is looking right back at him.

 

Nothing exists at the moment except him and Eames and whatever it is that is blocking out the existence of every other thing in the universe except the two of them. It is real and it pulls at him, yearning, needing, wanting.

 

Arthur wants to kiss Eames so bad. It is a terrible ache deep inside him where nothing else reaches, nothing else matters, some place he doesn’t know exists until moments like this – like when Eames is there to make him feel it.

 

He is going to kiss Eames.

 

But then Eames is letting go of the ice pack and Arthur reflexively brings up his hand to hold it to his face.

 

Eames draws away. Arthur releases the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

 

The silence afterwards is warmer, relaxing, and almost as communicative as words. Eames switches the channel to an early Marlon Brando movie Arthur is sure he has seen as a kid. However, he is feeling too peaceful to hurt his brain trying to remember its name and waits for the commercial break to find out what it is.


	5. Friend

**_Five_ **

**_Friend_ **

 

Arthur wakes from confused dreams of Eames and Marlon Brando to an ever more confusing reality of a dark room and unfamiliar bed. Couch, he corrects himself. Warm covers, fingers in his hair – his head is in Eames’ lap. Eames is talking on his phone, keeping his voice low, probably not wanting to wake Arthur up.

 

“I have a neighbour’s kid over, I told you, Fred. Why would I lie?” He makes a sound of exasperation at whatever it is that Fred replies. “I’m not making excuses. Just come over after ten, alright? Yeah, I know. I’m sorry about the dinner. I’ll make it up to you, alright?”

 

Eames’ voice is silvery smooth, soothing. Arthur doesn’t dare breathe.

 

 _Fred_ , he repeats in his head like a broken record. _Fred, Fred, Fred_. He has learnt the name of the blonde, he is sure. Or someone else like the blonde, someone who Eames has dinner with and promises to show a good time, someone Eames waits for. _Fred_.

 

In a single moment, Arthur is wide awake.

 

Everything grows silent again once Eames ends the call. Arthur keeps his eyes closed, concentrating hard on the feel of Eames’ fingers stroking his hair. Still, he feels eons away from Eames. He will never matter to Eames, he thinks. Eames doesn’t belong to his world – he doesn’t even exist in the same universe as Arthur.

 

Arthur shifts his head a little, pretends that he has just woken up.

 

“I didn’t think _A Streetcar Named Desire_ would put you to sleep,” Eames teases him and turns on the table lamp as Arthur sits up.

 

Arthur rubs his good eye and tries to blink with his bad one. His eyelid is still a little swollen but it doesn’t sting as bad anymore.

 

“That’s what it was called,” he mutters to himself. “Yeah, Blanche’s annoying,” he says louder, this time forgetting the name of the actress who plays her. Maybe they missed something on his head scan, he thinks. Something that is making him feel really crummy right now. _Fred_.

 

Eames chuckles. “Had a nice nap?”

 

Arthur glances around, wondering what time it is. “Yeah,” he replies and stands up. “Sorry for falling asleep like that. I’ll get going.” He has already made Eames miss his special dinner date. He doesn’t want to linger around intruding in his life even more, he thinks, feeling sicker by the second.

 

“That’s alright,” Eames gets up as well, walking with him to the door. “Take care of yourself, will you? Call me if you need anything – anytime.”

 

Arthur pushes back the hair from his eyes. He wears it slightly long so that it covers the back of his neck. However, it constantly gets in his eyes. It isn’t intentional. He just finds the trips to the barber shop tedious.

 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” he says, wondering how a day so good can leave him feeling so miserable. He should probably have woken up sooner so that Eames won’t have missed his dinner with Fred because of a neighbour’s bloody kid. Then Arthur won’t have to know about it and feel so wretched over it.

 

“Arthur,” Eames says a bit more forcefully even though the volume of his voice actually goes down a notch. Something in voice pulls Arthur out of his gloom. He looks up at Eames.

 

“I mean it,” Eames tells him, looking hard at him. He grabs a pen from the table near the front door and scribbles down his number on a paper. He hands it to Arthur. “Anytime, anything you need. Call me.”

 

Unlike before, Arthur doesn’t feel like a charity case. Eames’ voice isn’t laced with worry or concern. He sounds authoritative, firm. Arthur mentally reads the digits and then looks up at Eames. “Alright?” Eames says again. “Don’t think about anything. You need someone, just call, like you’d call a friend.”

 

‘ _Friend_ ’ doesn’t seem to soothe the hurt Arthur is feeling over Fred. However, it makes him feel funny elsewhere, makes the word stand out in his head like it hasn’t before.

 

“I don’t have a phone,” he replies stupidly.

 

Eames grins and tucks back the hair that is falling over Arthur’s eyes again. “Then get one. They are pretty handy things, I’ve heard,” he teases and pats the side of his neck.

 

Arthur tries not to remain fixated on his pettier feelings after that. He almost succeeds for some time.

 

But thirty minutes after he is back home, he heads straight up to his room, puts on his glasses and climbs out on the patio roof with his binoculars. He sits fruitlessly till dinner, shivering in the cool night air even with the jacket he is wearing over his sweater. At least he cannot tell if his face and hip are hurting anymore.

 

When he returns from the dinner, the lights are on in Eames’ bedroom. However, the blinds are drawn even though he can make out vague silhouettes at times.

 

 _I must be some sort of masochist_ , thinks Arthur, as he sits in the cold windy night, his eyes fixed in the direction of square light which is Eames’ bedroom window. _A pathetic kind of masochist_.

 

He puts his hand inside his pocket and his freezing fingers close around the piece of paper with Eames’ phone number on it. It is a low thing to do but Arthur cannot help himself. He leans over the banisters and checks to make sure no one is downstairs before creeping down to the living room and picking up the cordless phone. He regrets not having a connection installed in his room before.

 

‘Like you’d call a friend,’ Eames had said.

 

 _Friend_ , thinks Arthur. The last friend he had had was Brandon Leigh. In fact, Brandon had been the first person Arthur had come out to – sort of. They were twelve and watching YouTube videos together when Arthur had just let slip the fact out of nowhere. Brandon had seemed okay with it, told him that it wasn’t a big deal. Everything had gone on pretty much the same as before. Brandon had no problems sleeping over at Arthur’s and they still ate their lunch together at school.

 

Then everything had seemed to change suddenly the summer before last. Arthur was fourteen. At first, Brandon just avoided his calls. Then he stopped hanging out with him and told him that he didn’t want to be friends anymore. No explanations. Arthur had been horribly hurt. He had hated Brandon and picked on him. Then one day Brandon hurled homophobic slurs at him in front of whole school at lunch, outing him. There were even a few teachers around but no one did anything. Life had pretty much gone to shit after that. Arthur became the troubled gay kid. Sometimes someone would approach him out of sympathy for his outsider status but Arthur hated that even more than he hated the group of people who picked on him.

 

Now Arthur is calling Eames at midnight – just because Eames gave him the leave to do so by telling him to treat him like a ‘friend’. And he is doing it just because he is burning with jealousy over the fact that Eames is fucking a guy – another adult. So Eames is cheating on his wife, but that is none of Arthur’s business. What Arthur wants – wants with a maddening desperation is for Eames to be fucking _him_.

 

Eames doesn’t pick up the first time. The second time, he gets the call on the sixth ring.

 

“Hello?” he asks and Arthur’s chest constricts at the sound of his heavy breathing. He can hear someone moving in the background or it might be just his imagination in overdrive.

 

“Hey,” says Arthur, disconcerted to find that his voice comes out cracked, like he is hurting. He is hurting. He is a fucking stupid teenager and he is hurting.

 

“ _Arthur_?” Eames asks. “Arthur, is that you?”

 

He is so stupid – so, so fucking stupid. He should just throw himself off the patio roof or something. “Yeah,” he replies when Eames repeats his question. “I’m sorry – I know it’s late...”

 

“It’s alright,” Eames sounds like he is walking now, a door opens and closes. “It’s absolutely alright, Arthur. I meant it when I said you could call anytime.”

 

Arthur imagines Eames is absolutely naked. Maybe he has pulled on a pair of briefs or boxers. Which ones? Briefs, probably. Eames doesn’t seem like a boxers kind of guy. He is so fucked. Arthur is screwed in every way except the one that he wants to be.

 

“I know – I...” Arthur wipes his face. The wind seems to be howling in his ear. “There’s nothing wrong, though. I mean I’m okay. Nothing’s happened. I’m sorry I called at such a time.”

 

There is a pause and Arthur thinks this is it. Eames is regretting giving Arthur his number and he is probably going to tell him to go fuck himself and never do shit like this again. Arthur needs to hear Eames say that so he can stop feeling this stupid shit he has no right to feel.

 

“You can call me even if nothing is wrong, Arthur,” Eames says instead. “In fact, that’s probably for the better.” He is headed down the stairs now. “I mean imagine how much stress I’d be in if you only called when you were in trouble.” He is laughing and stops to drink some water. Arthur heard the tap running.

 

Arthur feels the tears threaten to spill out of his eyes again. He’s such a faggot, a pussy, a fucking everything Brandon and his fucking friends have called him over time. He hates himself so much right now.

 

“Arthur?” Eames’ voice gets serious again when Arthur doesn’t respond.

 

“’s nothing,” mumbles Arthur, wiping his nose. “Sorry to wake you up and all.” He should cut the call now. He’s feeling horrible enough for next ten years.

 

“Where are you?” asks Eames, a note of urgency to his question. “No, seriously, are you alright? Where are you?”

 

“Home,” answers Arthur soberly. “And I’m really okay. Just...” _Just needed to hear your voice, couldn’t take how you could be a normal human being leading your own life_. His glasses are foggy and his bad eye is really blurry. He gets up from the patio roof and climbs back into his room.

 

“Are they giving you a hard time at home?” Eames asks quietly.

 

Arthur stands still at the foot of his bed, startled by the change in topic. “Huh? Why? What?” he asks, blinks at the bed and finally takes off his glasses.

 

“Surely, you told them something about how you got hurt.”

 

Arthur didn’t. It wasn’t the first time and the explanation he had offered the first time held well enough for every subsequent time, whether it was true or not.

 

“Arthur, talk to me.” There is nothing like pity in Eames’ voice. He is demanding it from Arthur. He means to control the situation even if he doesn’t know what it is.

 

Arthur shivers despite being back in the warmth of his room. “It’s not my family,” he says. “It is nothing of the sort.” He gets into the bed, on his side, keeping all weight away from his painful left hip. He wedges the phone between the pillow and his ear and closes his eyes. “I meant it, Eames. I am okay. I don’t need help or anything of the sort. I can call without being in trouble, yeah?”

 

His head hurts some and he is exhausted despite the nice nap he had in Eames’ home earlier.

 

He strains to hear more sounds from Eames’ side. There is a soft thump, thump that has being going on all along. Then there is crackle of paper and then chewing noises. “You can call without being in trouble, darling,” says Eames – he is talking while eating. “But you’re also a stubborn little liar so I need to ask the same questions till you’re answering them right.”

 

Eames had hitherto been so completely _nice_ to him that the sudden word ‘liar’ catches him off-guard.

 

Arthur opens his eyes. “I’m not a liar,” he says, trying to sound offended but it comes out timid.

 

“Aren’t you? Then come on, tell me something true.” Eames is goading him. There was Eames in his silver Lexus, telling Arthur all he wants is for Arthur to get checked out in the hospital. There was Eames at his home, asking him to spend the day together, handing him chocolate milkshake and his number. But this isn’t that Eames. Arthur’s eyes are wide open, as if he can somehow see what sort of Eames this is just by listening to his voice, laced with mocking undertones.

 

“I...” Arthur starts, flushing hotly even though there is no one watching him. “You’re being stupid.”

 

Eames laughs at him, takes a bite of something. “Something about you, pet,” he says jeeringly. “Just one honest thing, that’s all I ask. But it seems like such a hard task for you.”

 

The blood is pounding in Arthur’s head. He is angry – not a good kind of angry either. The kind of angry he reserves for Brandon and Gary and whoever those other guys are. If Eames was in front of him, Arthur would have punched his face.

 

“I’m gay,” blurts out Arthur furiously. “I didn’t get beaten up because I’m gay. I got beaten up because I humiliated Brandon in Chemistry in front of the teacher knowing how he sucks balls at anything Science. He is so bad that they thought he had some sort of learning disability. He tries really hard not to be bad and no one knew that till today when I laughed about how it took him a whole fucking year to understand fractions. I did that because the girl he crushes on was in the class. I knew he’d come for me so I went down to somewhere where I didn’t think he’d hunt me down but he did, didn’t he? I don’t give a shit though. When I’m healed, I’ll fuck him up again, make him a laughing stock. He’s fucking stupid. He’s only taking Chemistry because that girl is taking the class. I’ll make the whole year hell for him. He can come after me but I’m going to have my revenge each time. He’ll fucking fail the class from the humiliation of it.”

 

Arthur is so loud by the end of his tirade that it is a miracle no one has come knocking on his door.

 

He pants hard as he finishes, images of Brandon’s livid and mortified face flashing through his head.

 

“Is that so?” Eames asks. He is still eating. “A nice plan you got for your freshman year.”

 

“I’m a fucking junior, fuck you,” replies Arthur spitefully. “I might have failed a stupid literature class in middle school but I skipped _two_ grades before that because I’m so good at maths and science. Arts are for people too stupid for science anyway.”

 

“Hilarious,” Eames says dryly and stops to drink something – beer, Arthur thinks, and hopes that he chokes on it. “And here I thought you were the stupid one for failing a literature class. You’re not lying about that, are you, darling? I mean, come on, Arthur, who fails a _literature_ class? I’ve never heard of that one before.”

 

“Fuck. You,” says Arthur and disconnects the call.

 

 


	6. Five Stages

 

**_Six_ **

**_Five Stages_ **

 

The thoughts in Arthur’s head are so loud that he smokes his entire remaining stash of pot that night and sleeps right through the Sunday. Even after he wakes up on Sunday evening, he is out of it for a while and the pain of ‘ _I fucked it up with Eames_ ’ is still dulled by his weed hangover when he does remember it afterwards.

 

He skips school on Monday, having only enough wits about him to make his way to the bathroom and eat when his stomach rumbles with hunger. Thankfully, his home is empty for the greater part on weekdays and he is already in bed when his grandmother returns from her tai chi classes.

 

Tuesday is when the pain first hits him hard.

 

He is groggy from oversleeping and the residual drug in his system but the throbbing in his bad hip is apparent now. He goes downstairs to have the dose of pills he has been missing the previous days. The bruises on his face are starting to fade to yellow around the edges. Even if that only makes him look sicker, at least the swelling is down. His mother tries to give him a ‘talk’ again but he snaps at her and goes in to take a shower.

 

When he stands looking at his body more closely in the mirror that is when the pain rips through him first.

 

Despite the haze he tried to block it with, Arthur still remembers their exchange clearly. He remembers the pain before it. He remembers the dream-like sweet day before it. He should be used to all good things coming to an end, as the song goes, but it still makes him wretched.

 

He tries to tell himself that it is weird. He didn’t even have anything more than a passing interest in Eames before that time when he ended up peeping on him. The fact that it soon culminated into some sort of awkward friendship afterwards was purely Arthur’s obsession with the man who happened to act like an adult and was kind to him.

 

Arthur isn’t nice and sweet and normal like other people are. It isn’t just wanting to have sex with other boys nor having problems controlling his temper. He is fucked up at a deeper level, the one which decides he is going to get himself into impossible situations every single time. The one which he showcased to Eames in his fury and that was Eames’ cue to wash his hands off him. He had played his part in helping Arthur out. He didn’t want to have anything more to do with him.

 

The thoughts have started again once the weed has worn off.

 

He wants to stay in Wednesday, too, but he is scared about being held back because he missed too many classes. He might hold the entire American education system in contempt but he submits to it nonetheless. He regrets coming to school as soon as he gets there. Too many people, too many looks, he can’t explain a thing about his injuries to his Physics teacher who is annoyingly fond of him and feels like he disappoints her, too. His mind constantly goes back and forth between how he fucked up with Eames and it doesn’t matter because Eames doesn’t give a shit about him anyway. The entire spectrum of his thoughts is heartbreaking. By the time it is the hour for his basketball club, he is hurting to work off the feelings with some exercise. But the coach takes one look at him and bars him from practice for the week.

 

Arthur thinks this time he really will throw himself off the patio roof because everything is so much shit.

 

Thursday is marginally better because he is sleep deprived after spending a sleepless night glued to his computer to take his mind off his Eames-centric thoughts. It is easier to concentrate on things like studies and homework when his mind isn’t constantly playing the same torturous memories. He is able to make it through classes without any mishaps and spends his free time catching up on all missed work.

 

By the end of Friday, Arthur thinks he might be able to hold on for a while till he is able to get together enough money for weed again. He is dreading the weekend because there is nothing to occupy his mind then and he doesn’t want to stay home because the urge to spy on Eames’ room will grow.

 

As he leaves school on Friday, Arthur is thinking over his options of short term work to make ends meet. He is about to head to the seedier parts of the gay district where no one will care about his age, when he sees the silver Lexus parked a short distance from the school gate. He stands undecided too long and the bus leaves him behind.

 

The illusion that he would be able to continue on with his regular life shatters.

 

And this is finally something he can actually blame on Eames.


	7. A First Time For Everything

 

**_Seven_ **

**_A First Time For Everything_ **

****

 

If Arthur had seen Eames’ car anywhere except near his school, he would have hesitated.

 

But as things are, he walks towards the SUV and stops near the passenger’s side. When he tries the door, he finds it unlocked. Arthur opens it and gets inside.

 

Eames has his hands in his pockets. There is a crumpled bag from Subway on the dashboard and a half-empty bottle of iced tea in the holder. Eames must have been waiting here for some time. Arthur left school much later than most kids because he didn’t want to head back home unless he had to. But if what he feared facing at home comes right to his school gates, then it is easier to dive into it head first.

 

Arthur doesn’t know whether Eames looks at him or not. He is staring hard at the floor mat, counting the grooves.

 

“There’s a steak and cheese sub,” says Eames and holds out a wrapped up sub in his direction. “I figured since you were okay with milk, lactose won’t be a problem for you. It’s still sort of warm. Eat it.”

 

Arthur hesitates but then takes the sub. Having skipped lunch, he is famished and he doesn’t want to start off with a pointless argument. Eames offers him the iced tea as well. Arthur takes a swig from the bottle and then starts eating.

 

“Can we go to some other place?” he asks. He is watching a car come close in the wing mirror and then it passes by them. It isn’t one of his teachers but it is still a staff member from school. “Other than home, I mean.” He glances at Eames, holding a chunk of bread and steak against one cheek in his mouth.

 

Eames scratches his nose and nods. And then he glances at Arthur – and finally, Arthur doesn’t feel like he is carrying the burden of the whole world on his shoulders anymore, the weight has been lifted in a split second.

 

“Got a little carried away the other night,” says Eames and turns his eyes to the road again as he starts the car. “Sorry about that.”

 

Arthur had a lot of things he wanted to say to Eames when he saw him again. They ranged from apologies to angry tirades and he had gone over them again and again in his head till he memorised the whole speech. However, right now, he is tongue-tied, and glad of having the food as an excuse to not speak. He is afraid of saying something that will mess up this ease he has with Eames now – entirely because of Eames’ efforts.

 

They ride in silence for a while. Arthur notices that they are headed further away from the city, now following a route along the creek. Even if Arthur isn’t good with people, places with lesser human habitation scare him. He squirms a little in his seat, drinks some of the tea and looks at Eames. Eames is humming some song to himself. Arthur doesn’t recognise it.

 

When they stop at a gas station, Eames leaves Arthur alone with the car because he needs to go to the loo. Arthur takes a few deep breaths and tries to relax. He had been prepared for Eames’ anger, accusations and estrangement – possibly when Arthur finally broke down and went and knocked on his door again. He hadn’t expected Eames to show up at his school, actually apologise and want to spend more time with him. Things like that didn’t happen to Arthur, especially since he continually proves to people that his outbursts are unexpected and very hurtful. Arthur often blames himself when things go wrong – it makes it easier when others blame him.

 

Eames’ way of dealing with him is something quite novel to him. He cannot get his head around it.

 

Eames has a package of things in his hand, too, when he returned. He puts it on the dashboard. Arthur mumbles that he has changed his mind about going to the toilet and escapes.

 

Once they are on the road again, Eames speaks. “I bought you some chocolate,” he indicates the package. “Peace offering – you’re not going to stay mad at me all evening, are you?”

 

Arthur’s head jerks up in surprise. “I’m not mad at you.”

 

Eames chews thoughtfully on the gum he popped in his mouth earlier. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

 

“I...” Arthur turns his head, watching the cedars and spruces race past the car as they go further uphill. “I thought you’d be mad, not want to have anything to do with me again.” He feels small and isolated, feels like there has to be some sort of catch to Eames’ friendliness.

 

The car slows down as they head in towards a clearing atop a hill. There is plain ground now and it overlooks the creek running into the lake. Even the view of the city from the car is mind-blowing. Arthur hasn’t been here before. Eames kills the engine but doesn’t unlock the car yet.

 

“I’m not mad, Arthur,” says Eames. Arthur’s ears are burning. He knows Eames is looking at him but he cannot bring himself to face him. “I was worried about you and I was afraid you weren’t telling me the whole truth. It was wrong of me to speak to you like that, I’m an adult...”

 

“You can speak to me any way you want,” Arthur says hotly, flushing even more. “I’m not a kid. You don’t have to shoulder all responsibility of being the adult between us. I’m old enough to be adult myself.”

 

“Well, I should have acted my age, Arthur, that’s all I mean. I’m not treating you like a child. If I am worried about you, then I should handle it better than I did that night.”

 

Arthur grips the empty Subway paper bag in his hand tightly, willing himself to stay calm. He cannot keep going off his rocker or he will drive Eames away, too. He is old enough now – he should act his age. He has his driver’s permit and will get the intermediate license soon. He is seriously considering college choices and scholarships. He doesn’t need Eames to coddle him with food and chocolates. He is old enough.

 

“I was waiting for you to call me,” continues Eames when Arthur remains silent. He unlocks the car, opens the backseat door and starts getting out some things. “I called your home on Sunday but they told me you were asleep – I didn’t know whether you wanted to talk to me yet or not. I thought I’d give you time.”

 

Arthur finally looks at Eames again as he gets his camera gear out and starts working on the settings. Now out of the car, Arthur walks further towards the edge of the hill and the view is indeed breathtakingly awesome. It is a cloudless no moon night and he has a clear view of the stars. The lights around the lake are twinkling diamonds struggling out of the dense conifers that border it. Arthur remembers going down to the lake for a school trip once and a few times with his family. He had been bored every trip, annoyed by the constant nagging that he shouldn’t go too far swimming in it and shouldn’t throw food at the birds. Now, he wants to tell Eames to drive them down to it, wants to know how it feels like to be sitting on the pier with Eames.

 

He turns back and takes few steps closer to where Eames is standing near the car, still busy with his camera. “I didn’t know you called,” he says, shoving his hands inside his pockets. “I thought you didn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore.”

 

Eames looks up from his camera and his lips quirk up in a smile as his eyes meet Arthur’s. “Well then, I’m glad we cleared up that misunderstanding, yeah?”

 

Arthur gives a small nod, cannot help smiling in return even though it feels alien on his face, “Yeah.”

 

“Don’t look so glum,” Eames walks closer to him and puts an arm around his shoulder. Arthur feels heady just from that contact, wants to huddle closer to Eames and wrap his arms around him. “Come on and help me take some good pictures.”

 

He explains the camera to Arthur and Arthur tries to listen, he really does. But it is impossible with his senses filled with the scent of Eames’ cologne and his skin cold everywhere except on his cheeks where Eames’ warm breath brushes across it sometimes. He concentrates on Eames’ lips more than on the camera which has more functions than a smartphone, he’s sure. His gaze takes in every bit of Eames’ stubbly jaw, covered with the growth at the end of the day and Arthur aches to know how it would feel against his fingers, his lips, and his own skin.

 

Eames’ raises a brow as their eyes meet all of a sudden.

 

“I’ll watch,” Arthur croaks out, voice cracking a little. He swallows and licks his chapped, dry lips. “I’ll watch and learn, too complicated to understand otherwise,” he expands. _Too complicated to understand when I’m not even able to listen to what you’re saying._

 

Eames chuckles and ruffles the back of his hair. Arthur’s palms are sweaty inside the pockets of his jeans despite the chill in the air at this altitude. He watches Eames focus and explain how is going about each shot. Before his phone had been stolen, Arthur had often amused himself with taking pictures with it. However, Eames elevates photography to a science, explaining things in terms he hasn’t heard before. With some distance between them, Arthur can focus on what methods Eames is using to avoid various aberrations and why he is or isn’t using the white balance. It’s good that Arthur is taking AP Physics. He doesn’t come off as a complete nincompoop contrary to his previous boasting. He flushes just thinking about what an ass he had been on phone before.

 

“Hey,” Arthur interrupts Eames’ enthusiastic explanations about depth, “I’m really sorry about all the awful things I said back then, you know.”

 

Eames glances at him, his eyes eerily light and glittering in the dark. “It’s alright. It was enlightening to get an insight into your annual school plans.”

 

Arthur groans and rubs his face with a sweat stained hand. “Quit it, will you? I don’t know why I said all that. I didn’t mean to say things like that.”

 

Eames’ eyes light up as if he has just thought of something very clever to reply to that but his phone interrupts them. Eames’ face closes as he turns away from Arthur and picks up the call. It is his wife. Arthur swallows and wanders away down a slope, not sure if he means to give them some privacy or if he just can’t face more truths about Eames.


End file.
